


Becca's Science & Aerospace Sleepaway Camp

by alienor_woods



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Multi, Multishipping, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, So much smut, so much weed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10571784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods/pseuds/alienor_woods
Summary: "What if I just did a series of ficlets of everyone banging at Becca's house?"A big serving of smut with a splash of feels, and a lot of being really affected down to one's soul by warm showers, clean clothes, and good food. Relationship tags added as chapters added.





	1. Miller x Roan

Abby smashed the radiation chamber about an hour ago. Maybe two. Maybe three, if Miller’s being really honest with himself. It was their last chance before the death wave, and it’s storming like hell outside right now, so keeping track of time lapse isn’t really high on his priority list.

He smells the weed as soon as he steps outside. Rain pounds the verandah roof and pours off the edge in a tattered, shifting sheet, marking the end of the dry porch and the start of Becca’s immaculate and water-soaked lawn. Miller isn’t sure who he expected to be at the end of this short scavenger hunt, but he’s certain Roan hadn’t even crossed his mind.

The king is leaned back in a rocking chair, knees spread, holding a slim joint between his thumb and pointer finger where his wrist is resting on the chair’s arm. He lifts it to his mouth and takes a long pull as Miller approaches. The man doesn’t even turn his head all the way to acknowledge him, just looks at Miller from the corner of his eye as he exhales the smoke in a long stream.

Roan offers him the joint—a nonchalant straightening of his elbow—and Miller takes it. It’s been a few days since he and Monty had rolled a blunt and the smoke tastes sweet and sharp. Roan takes it back and hits it again, then Miller again, then Roan again.

“You don’t happen to have a bright idea, then, huh?” Roan asks. His voice is gravelly from the third of the joint he’d smoked before Miller even rounded the corner.

Miller shakes his head. “Nope.” He lets the word pop off his lips before taking a last hit.

Roan grunts and holds his hand out for the roach. He rises to his feet as he finishes off the joint and walks over to the porch railing, flicking the end of it out into the rain. It’s a mess someone—or some drone—will have to pick up later, but Miller can’t bring himself to be annoyed. One, it’s the end of the fucking world. Two, his high is kicking in and it’s doing wonders for his Fucks Giving, generally speaking.

“Well, then,” Roan says. “That’s that.”

“Mhmm.” Miller rocks back in the chair. The rain feels like it’s wrapping around him now, trapping in the way his skin tingles and his head buzzes. Roan has about five minutes on him, his blue eyes already stoned-red, his shoulders loose and relaxed. And he doesn’t look half bad now that he’s out of that ugly makeup and dead animal skins. A few days ago, Miller had walked past the towel-wrapped and freshly-showered king in the upstairs hall, so he knows that under the thin gray thermal shirt is a fucking beautiful chest and stomach. Roan’s peppered with scars, too, and Miller thinks that maybe that sweetens the deal, instead of souring it.

Roan turns away from the porch railing and catches Miller’s evaluating eye.  For a single half-second, he looks surprised. Then he chuckles, looks out into the rain, then back at Miller.

Miller raises an eyebrow. “It’s the end of the world, man,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smirk. Roan returns it.

“Alright,” Roan says, voice low, walking back toward Miller. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The kiss is just as rough as Miller knew it would be. Roan grabs the back of the chair and rocks it back so he can control the angle. Miller scrabbles for Roan’s stomach, running his hands first up across washboard abs, then down to yank open those ridiculous leather pants. Miller gives Roan’s prick a soft squeeze and grins against Roan’s mouth when he feels it stiffen and grow. He shakes off the greedy, wanting kisses to hunch forward and slide his mouth down the shaft. Roan groans and lets go of the chair, sending it rocking forward and surprising Miller. He chokes on Roan dick, gags, but _fuck_ the noise Roan makes is worth it. Miller closes his eyes and gives it his all, hollows his cheeks until Roan gasps, licks and sucks at the head so Roan grabs at his shoulders, swallows Roan’s dick down into his throat and grins up at him when Roan gets his hand around his jaw. “You like doing that, huh?” he asks, voice all gravel.

Miller pulls off, his mouth open so Roan can look down on the head of his prick sitting on his tongue. He closes his lips around the corona, flickers his tongue over the slit, and slides his lips off in a wet kiss. “Yeah, I like this,” Miller tells him. He flutters his fingers over the backs of Roan’s knees and ignores Roan’s _tch_ to duck under his bobbing dick and press sucking kisses at the root of it.

Roan’s fingers play at the nape of Miller’s neck, clearly used to grabbing onto hair here, and Miller takes a bit of pleasure in the fact that Roan's a bit out of his element. He returns to work, letting the heady smell of musk fill his nose, Roan’s pale skin and brown hair fill his vision. Roan’s sighs and groans float through the sound of the falling rain, guiding Miller’s efforts until the other man’s breaths come higher and higher in his throat.

“You gonna take it?” Roan asks, still needling a bit. He squeezes the back of Miller’s neck and rocks his hips, and Miller retaliates by slipping a hand up to cup and roll Roan’s sack. He exhales a curse and widens his stance, all but begging Miller to do it again, and again, and again until he comes in long, salty bursts of come down the back of Miller’s throat.

When he’s done, and Miller’s done lapping and sucking at Roan’s softening dick, saying goodbye, Roan drops heavily to his knees. He drags Miller’s mouth to his own, licking at the taste of himself. His hand falls to Miller’s erection, trapped behind his zipper, and Miller nips at Roan’s mouth. “C’mon, man,” he wheedles, when Roan pets and teases a little too long. “Wasn’t I good to you?”

“I don’t know; were you?”

Miller holds Roan’s hand down and grinds up into it. “I don’t know; who just jizzed down my throat, huh?”

Roan chuckles and opens his mouth to Miller’s teeth and tongue, pulls Miller’s knees wide and wrests his jeans open. His dick finally springs free and Miller rolls his head back in relief. “That’s nice,” Roan compliments him, pushing up Miller’s shirt and wrapping his fingers around his length. He licks under the head, where the glans nips in and up in a tight bundle of nerves, wrenching a sigh from Miller’s chest.

Roan buries his head in Miller’s lap, taking the length of him into his warm, wet mouth. Miller lets his own head loll against the back of the rocking chair. Thunder rolls in the distance, and his friends’ laughter rolls inside the house, and he’s getting head from a king with ten days to go until the end of the world.

 _Yeah_ , Miller thinks, running his fingers through Roan’s hair. _It’s nice._


	2. Bellamy x Clarke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kane had told him that Becca’s house was a big laboratory, so the warm light and hum of music that greets him is another layer of cognitive dissonance. The conversations pause as he steps through the doorway and takes them all in, in clean clothes and lounging on clean furniture, looking like another scene from a movie. The the room explodes in welcome, everyone rushing to greet him and lob questions. How was his trip? Did he bring any rations? The others are alright, right? Monty had mentioned a map on the radio, had he brought it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Canon divergent from the mid s4 hiatus episode, God Complex.  
> -This chapter's ~dilemma, as texted to my sounding boards: "I gotta get Bellamy to the camp but someone needs to kiss him and it would be boring and expected if it were Clarke."  
> -Reference to [First and Last of Your Kind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6397177), by verbaepulchellae, who was sweet to let me build off of that fic. <3

When Bellamy was growing up, his mother’s favorite movie had been Sabrina. The old one, the one with Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart. Bellamy had loved watching the night scenes, when the grounds of the Larabee mansion grounds were lit up vibrant and white against the black sky. The world on the screen was so unlike anything Bellamy had ever known: vast rooms and open sky and more space than any one family could ever hope to need.

Which is why the walk up to Becca’s house after a long day’s drive from Arkadia is one of the most bizarre and surreal experiences of Bellamy’s entire life. Underfoot, the grass is trimmed evenly and sprawls across a space the size of Arkadia’s grounds. The house is uplit by bulbs tucked in the lush landscaping, looking as flat a white as 1950s cinematography. Jackson leads Bellamy past a pool, rippling pristinely, and through large glass door that slides easy and smooth through its tracks.

Kane had told him that Becca’s house was a big laboratory, so the warm light and hum of music that greets him is another layer of cognitive dissonance. The conversations pause as he steps through the doorway and takes them all in, in clean clothes and lounging on clean furniture, looking like another scene from a movie. The the room explodes in welcome, everyone rushing to greet him and lob questions. How was his trip? Did he bring any rations? The others are alright, right? Monty had mentioned a map on the radio, had he brought it?

Miller cuffs the back of his neck and Abby pulls his face down to kiss to his temple. Clarke moves up beside him and works the straps of his backpack down his arms. Giving his hand a squeeze, she hikes the pack up onto her shoulder carries it off to a corner for him.

Everyone has eaten dinner; a few of them are dressed for bed, as well. Despite the hour, Jackson points him to a seat at the table. Murphy sidles up behind Bellamy once he’s in a chair. “Welcome home, Bellamy,” he says, slinging an arm around his head in a loose embrace. “Gotta get you all fed up so you and Clarke can run your big brains at full speed.”

Murphy finishes off by planting a smacking kiss on the top of his head. Peeved and affectionate at once, Bellamy shakes out of Murphy’s hold with a half-hearted tch. Besides, Murphy smells rather…distilled, information Bellamy would like to know more about. Bellamy strips out of his jacket and nods at the glass in Murphy’s hand. “Whiskey?”

Murphy rolls his glass on the table. The liquor swirls at the bottom, catching the light. “This, my friend, is scotch. Becca appears to have been quite a fan. Want some? We have a whole cabinetful and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“Sure.”

The microwave dings. Abby pulls out a bowl of pasta and tests the heat before bringing it over to him. She pets the back of his head as she puts the bowl down in front of him, tugging at his hair the way his mom used to do when she thought his hair was getting too long. Murphy’s over by the wet bar, so Bellamy closes his eyes and leans into the last few strokes of her hand. With a heavy exhale he hadn’t even known he’d been needing, he drops his shoulders away from where they’ve been hiked up his neck. “Eat up,” she says. “You’ll feel better after.”

“Thanks, Abby,” he murmurs over his shoulder. Then, to Murphy, who brings him two fingers worth of something with a black label: “Thanks, man.”

He tucks into his dinner. And Abby is right: he does feel better after.

**

The shower is the next modern amenity he meets. Clarke tells him that the house has its own cistern and solar panels for the heat, so he can take his time. Twenty minutes of hot, clean water a cleansing, meditative experience, but even after he’s done, he’s still antsy, not quite ready to lie down. He’d barely gotten a good look around the house earlier, so he slides on a tee and his cleanest pants and quietly creeps down to the first floor.

Where he promptly runs into Raven. “Jesus, you scared me,” Raven whisper-hisses at him in the dark, holding onto the corner she’d just rounded.

“What are you doing down here?” he whisper-hisses back at her, swatting off her pissy swings at him.

She rolls her eyes and points at her leg. “I sleep down here, duh.”

“Really? How many bedrooms does this place have? A dozen?”

“You’d think so, with all this space. But there are just a couple,” she tells him. He scoffs and she snickers. “I know, right? Rich people are weird. Where are you bunking, by the way?”  
She asks it with a drawl and a raised eyebrow, barely discernible in the unlit halls. He lifts his own. “With Miller and Jackson, in the gray bedroom.”

“Boys only? That’s a shame. Well, if you change your mind, and want some female company…” Raven starts, her mouth curling upwards.

“Raven,” he interrupts, but she keeps going, sidling past him until they’re shoulder to shoulder.

“…Clarke has her own room.”

“Fuck you,” he grumps, jostling her away as she snickers.

She grabs onto his wrist at the last minute. “Hey, Bellamy,” she calls out, seriously this time.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she tells him, dropping the edge she keeps in her voice in the daytime hours. She leans over and kisses his shoulder through the fabric. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“You, too.” He tugs on a strand of her loose hair. “Hang in there, Raven. Go get some sleep.”

He pokes through the kitchen, flips through the old magazines and books Becca has lying around, and makes his way back out the sliding glass door to where pool’s lights keep the backyard aglow. Given the untidy arrangement of the lounge chairs across the deck, it seems to be a popular area for the lab’s current residents.

And the pool water is so clear. Certainly clearer than the water they drink in Arkadia. Bellamy crouches down and swirls his hand in the water to test it. It’s warm; heated somewhere in the pavestones, he surmises, squinting at the groutlines through the water’s surface.

He’s just settled into a chair and tilted his head back to marvel at the security system when he hears the door slide open and closed.

“I know,” Clarke says. Her bare feet pad across the deck and down the steps. “I felt like Dorothy in Oz when I first got here.”

He chuckles. She looks soft and clean in her pajamas, and she has a glass in each hand. “Does that make Roan your Toto?”

“Don’t tell him,” she whispers conspiratorially, and offers him one of the glasses. “[I promised you a drink](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6397177), remember?”

He nods and takes a sip. It’s more scotch, but Bellamy thinks it’s different from the one Murphy gave him earlier. “I wasn’t expecting the all-inclusive resort as the setting, but I’ll take it.”

Her giggle echoes in her glass. She dips a toe in the pool and flicks some water at him. The lines of her thighs light up with the pool lights, all the way to the edge of her ruffled shorts, and Bellamy sees that her legs are prickled with chill bumps.

“Clarke, you’re cold.”

“I’m fine, Bellamy,” she insists, prissy in a way that just makes him grin, this late at night and with a second drink in his hand.

He doesn’t let himself think about it, just reaches out and slips a hand around her wrist, easy and gentle and with a stroke of his thumb over her knuckles. “C’mere, Clarke. Come sit with me.”

For all that she rolls her eyes as he tugs her closer, she helps him settle her sideways across his lap. She wiggles herself into the cradle of his chest and shoulder and crosses her knees to keep herself arranged. “Wow. Yeah. You’re warm,” she admits.

He chuckles and runs his free hand up over her knee. She’s got a scar here, pink and shiny. He traces the edges of it with a finger and feels her heartbeat tick up. “Should listen to me more.”

She shakes her head, teasing, flirting, as she sips her scotch in his lap. But she doesn’t retort, just leans her head back into his shoulder with a sigh.

Everyone wants to talk these days. Talk about what’s coming, talk about what to do, talk to keep the fear at bay. So he’s happy for the quiet. He’s happy to sit here and smell Clarke’s shampoo and feel the breeze on his skin, cooler and softer than even the A/C systems he used to clean on Alpha Station. Inside the house, a door opens and closes. There’s a hum of conversation, a muted burst of shared laughter.

Bellamy’s thumb runs circle after circle around Clarke’s kneecap.

He rolls his face down into Clarke’s hair. “Thanks for remembering our drink,” he murmurs, squeezing her knee but making no other move to get up.

She rocks her head to the side and eyes him. The angle is extreme and intimate, but they’re unhurried. She reaches back and strokes her fingertips down his cheek. “Wouldn’t have missed it,” she whispers back, and twists up to kiss him.

It’s long, slow, chaste passes of their mouths against each other until Clarke winces away with a crick in her neck. He licks at her jaw and nips at her cheek where her grin has made it go all full and round. He was happy to have her still and curled against him, but the press of his mouth to hers has made her wiggly and breathy, all girl curves in his lap and under his hands. She lets him drive this time, shivering through the detours his fingers take along her thighs, across her belly, up her arms, until she’s sucking at his neck and he finally gets his hand on her breasts.

He tries to tease her a bit, by telling her about how he’d seen how the cold had her nipples all drawn up tight when she first came outside. Clarke bites her lip to stop her grin, not wanting to encourage him to run his mouth, but she turns herself so she can kiss him full on the mouth now. Better shielded from the house like this, she tugs up her shirt for him.

He curses at the sight of her breasts peeking out under the hug of her waffleweave sleep shirt and she mouths at his temple and ear until he stops staring and starts touching. He remembers she likes to be petted more than tugged on, that she likes to cover his hands with her own, like she wants to feel what he feels. He and moves back and forth with low whispers and slow kisses, keeping her nipples peaked and her breathing jagged.

There’s not enough room for them to do much more than that, even if they didn’t have drones and security cameras to worry about, too. It’s enough, though. They stay out there a while longer, trading swallows of scotch, kissing, playing with Clarke’s tits, kissing some more, and indulging in the press of Bellamy’s cock against her thigh. Finally, their scotch runs out and Bellamy’s exhaustion sets in. Clothing rearranged, Clarke leads the way back into the house and they sneak upstairs, sharing one last, long kiss against her door jamb.

Soon, he’ll be ready to follow her through the door.

Not tonight, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Three non-Clarkes kissed Bellamy can u name them GO!]


	3. Clarke x Echo

Echo doesn’t ask Clarke why she’s come to find her, all the way out here beyond the tennis courts and swimming pool. And even if she hadn’t already smelled the tension rolling off of the sky girl in waves, Clarke lying down beside her and drifting her fingertips over Echo’s would have been a hell of a clue.

 

She rolls her head on the grass and gives Clarke a once-over. “You sure you didn’t get lost on your hunt?” she asks, arching a brow. Clarke’s glance skips away from Echo’s for only half of a heartbeat. When it returns, it’s steelier, more determined. Echo shrugs and tilts her face up to take Clarke’s mouth against her own.

 

She’s greedy, Clarke. Handsy, aggressive, demanding when she swings her knee over to straddle Echo’s waist. It’s never been a mystery to Echo why Roan and Bellamy look at Clarke the way that they do--her mouth is too kissable, curves too touchable. Echo’s perfectly happy to be the bottom. Her hands have more freedom to palm the weight of her breasts and press into the curve of her ass. Clarke scrambles to shove Echo’s shirt up and tweak her small nipples. She whispers filthy endearments in Echo’s ears and works her thigh against her cunt until the older girl is shaking and squirming and snapping at her to  _ just get your fingers in me already _ .

 

But Clarke didn’t come here out of the goodness of her heart, and Echo knows that. Clarke’s pants come down along with Echo’s and she doesn’t fuss with asking if it’s alright before backing her hips up over Echo’s face. Echo hooks her elbows around Clarke’s hips and slurps at her while Clarke does the same to her. It takes Echo all of two seconds to realize why Lexa must have been so besotted with her: the girl is a queen at eating cunt. Clarke gets Echo all spread out wide so she can suck and lick at her, even works a hand around to give Echo a good finger fucking like she asked for. And because Clarke’s doing such a good job, being generous even in her selfishness, Echo returns the favor. She gives Clarke’s clit slurping kisses and flicks before giving her the flat of her tongue to grind against, shamelessly collecting the secondhand benefit of Clarke’s moan vibrating against her own cunt.

 

It’s barely any time at all until they’re both shaking and shivering. Their moans have turned into worldless begging, muffled against each other’s slick flesh. Clarke’s cunt clenches, and Echo thinks that she’s going to hold off until Echo comes first, just because it would be so  _ Clarke _ to do that, but no -- Clarke sucks in a breath and then half-chokes a gasp before wetness spills across Echo’s cheeks. Her hips pike up and away from Echo’s face in a full-bodied shudder, and Echo lets them go.

 

Luckily, the generosity to which Clarke attended to Echo’s pleasure isn’t just limited to her pre-orgasmic state. Once she’s done twitching and blinking at the pinkening sky, she twists herself back around to lie alongside Echo, right side up. Not wanting to lose momentum, Echo has already started petting at her own clit. Clarke bats her hand out of the way.

 

“Like this?” she breathes, mimicking the tight circles Echo had been making. Echo hisses  _ yes, yes, fuck me like that _ back at her, rocking her hips up against Clarke’s fingers. A throaty chuckle flees Clarke’s throat, but Echo doesn’t care, not when she noses Echo’s shirt back over her nipple and takes it between her lips. Echo fists grass in one hand and Clarke’s hair in the other and lets her orgasm spiral up her spine and explode on her tongue.

 

Clarke leaves her there on the hillside, her clothes pulled back into place. Echo stays behind for a little longer, still half-naked and relishing the evening breeze and the dying sunlight on her bare skin. Only when her stomach growls at her does she make her way back to the house. 

 

Murphy’s made soup from game Emori has snared in the woods. Everyone mills around the kitchen, silverware and drinks in hand. Clarke’s there, the slight flush across her chest the only sign of her recent orgasm. Instead of ignoring her completely, Clarke passes her an empty bowl with a friendly smile.

 

“Be careful,” she warns. “Murphy isn’t shy with the spices.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on tumblr, y'all.](http://alienor-woods.tumblr.com)


End file.
